


Muscle Memory

by fishfingersandjellybabies



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 17:07:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5098529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishfingersandjellybabies/pseuds/fishfingersandjellybabies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce doesn't remember them, but that doesn't mean his body doesn't either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Muscle Memory

**Author's Note:**

> a halloween 2015 tumblr prompt, about amnesiac bruce.
> 
> It ain’t Halloween unless I write about Scarecrow. I don’t know if I followed any of the prompts given. Julie was actually at the gala, but Bruce never actually saw her. The batboys were there undercover, as they knew Crane was going to show up at some point. Dick’s wearing his blond wig throughout. Couldn’t remember if we ever gave the Mr. Sparrow persona a first name, so I stuck with that.

Bruce stood by the lavish dessert table, glancing almost nervously around the room.

This party was bigger than he expected it to be. And – as he tugged at his bow-tie – much _fancier_ than he expected, too.

But it had been a while. And, amnesiac or not, he was still Bruce Wayne. And while he may not have held the same playboy-esque persona people came to know and expect, they still…seemed to want to see him, all the same.

“You did always hate the galas, sir.” Alfred had informed him with a laugh, when handing him the tuxedo he was supposed to wear.

He sighed, took a large gulp of his alcohol. Held it in his mouth for a moment as he looked around the ballroom. There was dancing and a band. Tall tables for people to stand and mingle at. Shimmering diamonds, black suits and colorful dresses.

As he swallowed the whiskey, he found Alfred across the floor. Holding a tray full of hors d'oeuvres and speaking to a blonde man. Mr. Sparrow, Bruce remembered, his – apparent – old friend. And at his old friend’s side was a little boy. A child, no older than eleven. He was a sharp contrast to Mr. Sparrow, dark, short hair, clean, young face. But their eyes seemed similar – sharp and bright. _Fiercely_ intelligent.

 _A son_ , Alfred had quipped, when he passed Bruce earlier, when Mr. Sparrow and the child had arrived, and Bruce asked who he was.

And Bruce…found that a little odd. It was Mr. Sparrow’s son, right? Okay, so why say _a_ son, not _his_ son?

But Bruce ignored the nearby whispers – “Poor Bruce doesn’t even know about his children.” “Do you think he knows about the dead one?” “I heard he doesn’t even remember what happened to his _parents_.” – as he focused on that little boy, because there was something about him. Something familiar. Something… _sad_.

So _heartbreakingly_ sad. Bruce could see it, as that little boy glanced around. There was a haunting in his blueish-green eyes. A loneliness in his pupils. A pain in his irises. And Bruce didn’t know him, couldn’t even remember his _own_ past traumas. But he knew. He knew that _no_ child should ever have that kind of pain. Not _ever_.

So he turned slightly, set his now-empty glass down, and stepped forward, with full intentions to rectify the problem. To find out what troubled the boy, and fix it. Or at least, inform Mr. Sparrow of whatever problem there was with his son.

He didn’t get far, though, before a waiter appeared in front of him. And Bruce tried to go around him. Smiled and ducked to the side, but the waiter – tall and lanky, with a juvenile bowl-ish haircut – was persistent, and followed wherever Bruce went.

“Mr. Wayne.” He said with a smile, one almost hidden by his beak nose. Bruce glanced down at him, smiled politely. The waiter held up his tray, on which sat a single glass, half full with an auburn liquid. “From the lady at the bar.”

Bruce’s eyes darted over, saw a flash of orange hair, and, he _thought_ , tattoo-filled arms, and couldn’t help but smile.

_Julie._

Always thinking of him. Of course.

He let his grin widen, and took the drink. The waiter seemed almost relieved, as he dropped his tray to his side, and bowed his head. “Enjoy the drink, Mr. Wayne. I heard it’s a real _doozie_.”

Bruce nodded absently, talking another gulp. Sweet and a little bitter, burns as it rolled down his throat. Just like he liked his whiskey.

And he almost laughed, because he didn’t remember telling Julie that. But hey, the woman was full of surprises. That’s why he loved her.

He stepped off again, but this time towards the bar, this time to thank Julie for her generosity, to reward her thoughtfulness with a kiss or two. And maybe, just _maybe_ , they could leave this shindig early. Sneak away to a coat closet or empty office or-

On the third step, he stumbled, clattered against one of those tall tables. A wave of whispers around him, but more concerned than gossipy. He clung to the table, and laughed a little bit. He wasn’t a big drinker, and this was two within an hour. Maybe he should slow it down.

He shook his head, glanced back up towards his destination. Julie wasn’t there anymore.

Bruce frowned, began to look around.

Bad idea.

His vision was glitching. People were fading out and back in. Changing with every blink. From their fancy selves to screaming, to _bleeding_ , to crying, to looking literally _dead_ on their feet.

Bruce turned back towards the bar, and the woman he thought was Julie – it wasn’t her at all. Not long orange hair, but short. Black. In a low cut dress. Alfred identified her as one of Bruce’s former lovers, and a rare one he remained friends with. Selina something.

Suddenly Selina became blurry, fuzzy. Swished away, and when it came back to clear, she was in a skintight suit. Leather, with goggles and ears. _Catwoman_.

 _“Come on, Batman…”_ She was singing, leaning forward and exposing her cleavage, licking at her lips seductively. _“Come out and play…”_

Bruce twitched, turned away. Found someone else, someone who’d come in after Mr. Sparrow and the little boy. He was…Bruce gulped, dug his nails into the tablecloth.

This man – Jay, he’d introduced himself as Jay – was bleeding. Wounds all over his body. There was a white streak in his hair, mixed in with his bangs, and it was slowly turning red, as that blood poured down his face, down from every wound on his body.

And Jay – he was in a Robin uniform. He was glitching like television channels, flipping from a tall, broad man, into a child, sad and screaming, back into a man, but now with guns, with a red mask, with anger etched into his face-

Always that white streak.

Near him, the man he came in with. Bruce recognized him – Tim Drake, he worked at Wayne Enterprises. He too, was flashing into a Robin uniform, and then _another_ uniform. Red and black, with a cowl. Looking at his wrist, at a virtual display coming from it.

He glanced up from the computer, and the mask crinkled, as if he were furrowing his brows.

_“You messed up now, boss…”_

“No…” Bruce suddenly pushed back, tried to get away from these images, even as they flashed back to normal, as they flashed back to Jay and Tim in tuxedos, staring at him, glancing between each other, in concern. He jerked back, felt his foot slide from underneath him again, and he slammed into another table. “No…!”

A woman nearby shrieked, and Bruce looked at her. He didn’t know her, _knew_ he didn’t know her, but she, in her deep green dress, shimmered too. Was suddenly the villainess Poison Ivy. Vines and flowers lifted from her body as she sauntered forward.

 _“Just one little kiss, Batman…”_ She grinned, and it was terrifying. _“And this will all go away…”_

“Wha…” Bruce bumbled, collapsing backwards against the new table. Crashing into it and sending it and him to the floor. “W-what’s happening. Why… _what’s_ …what’s going on…”

His vision swam as he tried to push himself back up, as his hand slipped on a piece of the broken table and glass. He saw the waiter nearby, and he…he was _smiling_.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Wayne?” He asked gleefully. Bruce blinked, and suddenly – the waiter was wearing a hat, had straw coming from his sleeves, and a burlap bag over his face as a mask, misshapen holes cut for his eyes and mouth. “Didn’t like your _drink_?”

“You…” Bruce accused, or tried, near floundering on the floor. The whispers of the partygoers were louder now. Pattering against his brain like a harsh rainstorm. “You did this to me. You…y- _you_ put…my _drink_ , you put something in…”

“Father!”

Bruce gasped, jerked his head, saw that little boy – _Mr. Sparrow’s little boy_ – sprinting at him, with Mr. Sparrow trying, and failing, to grab his arm from behind him.

And Bruce felt tears welling in his eyes. This child – _another Robin_. Flashing into a green mask, a yellow cape. Sparking into bloodstained skin, dead eyes, betrayed face. A sword through his chest, a sword in his _hands_ , covered in blood. A decapitated head, hanging from his fingers-

And that call, his shrill, desperate shout, it echoed. Through Bruce’s brain, through the room. Probably through the whole city.

_“Father!”_

And Bruce…he felt himself reaching for the child as the boy dropped to his side. He didn’t know this boy, not beyond him evidently being the son of a dear friend, but it was apparently muscle memory, as he clutched at the child’s arm, held his cheek.

“What happened.” The boy – Robin, again, there was that mask _again_ – demanded, pulling the hand from his cheek and holding it. “Fath… _Mr. Wayne_ , please, you need to tell me what happened.”

“He got hit.”  Mr. Sparrow said, suddenly at Bruce’s other side, feeling his throat for a pulse, running his hand downwards and pushing slightly against Bruce’s chest. “This is the affect of fear toxin if I’ve ever seen it.”

There was suddenly a name on his tongue, another memory of his body, but not his mind. But that was impossible, it was _impossible_. His name was _Mr. Sparrow_ , it wasn’t-

“But there was no gas.” The little boy claimed, squeezing Bruce’s fingers, even as Bruce clawed desperately at him, let the tears trail from his eyes. “Since when could Crane attack with singular precision and not be noticed?”

“D-” Bruce slurred through his sobs, pulling at the boy’s jacket. Another name, not Mr. Sparrow’s. But he cut off, suddenly, another thought coming to mind. “Dr- _inkkkk_.”

“Drink…?” Mr. Sparrow glanced around, and Bruce jerked as his long blond hair morphed into black, into short and – oh, there it is now. Now there was a clear resemblance between him and the child. “Drink… _shit_.”

Mr. Sparrow reached out, picked up the glass Bruce had dropped. Empty now, with the rim cracked and splintered from the fall.

 _“The wait staff.”_ The boy hissed. Suddenly, he turned, searched the room until he found the other two men – the other _Robins_. Jay and Tim. “Drake, it’s the waiters!”

And those names were on his tongue. Bruce gasped, felt himself panting, as he rolled the other way, grabbed Mr. Sparrow – a dark-haired man, another goddamn Robin, another masked vigilante in blue – just as tightly as he held the boy. Mr. Sparrow looked down at him, blue eyes wide and panicked and worried.

“No one else touch their drinks!” Bruce heard someone shout. A woman, he thought. That Selina, maybe. _Catwoman_. But she wasn’t…she was a _criminal_. A bad guy, she _wouldn’t_ -

Suddenly a gleeful giggle, the patter of shoes across the floor. The hiss of something, screams and shouts from the party-goers. An announcement from a loud, high, confident voice. “Happy Halloween, Mr. Wayne!”

Bruce suddenly felt the two he was holding shift to move, and he tightened his hold, pulled them back down.

“D-!” Bruce tried again, the room swimming once more, this time with darkness. He felt himself losing consciousness. “ _Dick_ -!”

“We’re losing him.” The boy claimed, and his voice sounded downright terrified. He felt another hand on his chest, one next to Mr. Sparrow’s. Tiny, and shaking. “Grayson, we’re _losing him!_ ”

“No, it’s alright, it’s just-”

And suddenly, Bruce didn’t fight anymore. Let the flashing, terrible images swarm his eyes, all meld into white, then fade into a deep, unending black. Let his mind go blank, let the sounds echo between his ears. Let his body go limp, let that muscle memory take over. Let it do what it wanted. _Say_ what it wanted.

As he drifted into that darkness, as his head rolled to the side, bounced off the little boy’s knee, he felt his face twitch in a smile. Squeezed those two hands once more, as he was swallowed into the nothingness. “ _Damian_ …”

~~

He woke up to beeping. Soothing, he guessed, after what he’d passed out to.

He felt the tug of wires on his arms. IVs and sensors. Bandages on his fingers, and for a moment, he couldn’t remember why. Couldn’t remember quite what happened.

A drink. Drugged. The flashes. The falling. The _terror_.

Suddenly, he heard voices. Soft, but only because of distance. Because they were beyond the closed door. In the hallway.

“No, I don’t want to hear it!” High and childish. A kid, no doubt. “He was…Grayson, he was _remembering_ , and you _stopped_ him!”

“He wasn’t remembering, Damian!” An adult shot back, in a voice that Bruce had heard before. “It was the _drug_ , okay? The fear toxin, it was messing with his mind!”

_“Liar!”_

“Damian, _please_. Don’t- _Don’t_ walk away from me!” Bruce saw, through the tiny window, a body lung forward, grab an arm and pull it back. “I…I _had_ to, okay? I didn’t want to, but.” A sigh, and the adult suddenly dropped downwards, was suddenly level with the shadow of the child. “If I didn’t knock him out, the toxin was going to _eat away his mind_.”

“It _wasn’t_.” The child whined. “He was _remembering_.” Bruce watched the shadow turn its head away, cross its arms. “He was remembering _me_.”

Pause.

“I wish he was.” The adult admitted sadly. “Damian, I wish he was, more than _anything_ in the _world_.”

And it was loud, the boy’s sniff. Bruce watched as he rubbed his sleeve across his eyes.

He didn’t get to focus on it, though, as suddenly, his hospital room door swung open, and Alfred and Julie were standing there, looking worried and hopeful.

“Master Bruce?”

But Bruce didn’t look at him, not just yet, kept his eyes on the crouched man – Mr. Sparrow, it was his dear friend Mr. Sparrow – and the boy, still in the hallway. The man had turned towards the opened door, watching silently. Smiling, when he realized Bruce was looking at him.

“Hey Bruce,” He called. The little boy jerked his head around. His eyes were red, and lips pouting. “How are you feeling?”

“Like a ton of bricks were dropped on my head.” Bruce admitted. He hesitated, then, stared between the man and child. Remembered them being there, in his moments before passing out. Remembered saying things to them, saying _important_ things to them. But, for the life of him, he couldn’t remember what they were. What their significance was. “…Are you and your son okay?”

The smile dropped from Mr. Sparrow’s face, and he glanced at the floor as the boy scoffed and walked away.


End file.
